"Old Hookhand can say what he likes; he's usually right," the mason said mildly. "You'll find a couple of ponies waiting for us outside. I got them cheap, but they're sturdy little beasts."

"We need to get out of here," muttered Tungdil, deciding to save the story of what had happened in the theater until they were safely out of town-not that he had the faintest idea as to how they would escape. "The дlfar are after me."

"In that case, we need a plan," observed Bavragor.

"I've been thinking, scholar," said Boлndal. "Our enemy will be focusing on the main gates, so all we need is a side exit. Once we're out, we can hack our way through the fringes of the battle." He glanced at his brother, whose uncharacteristic silence was explained by the fact that he was snoring in the doorway. "Obviously, the circumstances aren't ideal," he finished with a sigh.

Goпmgar shuddered. "Through the battle?" In his mind's eye he was already fleeing from snarling orcs, grunting bцgnilim, and nimble-footed дlfar, while arrows rained down on him and swords, spears, and pikes slashed and jabbed all around. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"I don't suppose you can fly, can you?" asked Bavragor. The artisan shook his head wretchedly. "In that case, we don't have a choice."

There was a loud crash behind them. Ireheart had gone down like a felled oak and was lying inert on the floor. His loud snores were the only indication that he hadn't been smitten by Vraccas's hammer.

"A fat lot of use he is," Goпmgar said accusingly. "Just when we could do with a bloodthirsty warrior, he knocks himself out on beer. Think of how many orcs he could have butchered for us."

"I know." Bavragor nodded, helping Boлndal to drape the unconscious Boпndil over one of the ponies. "It beats me how he got into this state. The long-uns' beer is no better than flavored water."

"He drank five whole tankards of it," Goпmgar told him. He looked at the mason in sudden amazement. "You're not saying…"

"I had seven, not counting the two at the market." He winked at the smaller dwarf and passed him both sets of reins. "Here, look after the ponies."

Hefting his mighty war hammer, he took up position at the rear of the procession. Boлndal and Tungdil took the lead.

From time to time they heard the clatter of swords, but they avoided trouble by taking frequent detours and keeping out of sight. The tactic was to Goпmgar's taste.

People were charging past them in every direction, some armed and rushing to defend the town, others clutching their children and possessions and hoping to find refuge in passageways and backstreets that hadn't yet fallen to the orcs.

Another doomed settlement, thought Tungdil, remembering the charred wreckage of Goodwater. He knew what the orcs would do to Mifurdania and he was tempted to forget about the mission and rush to the townspeople's aid. They were desperately in need of a few extra axes. He wondered whether to declare a change of plan.

What if one of us gets killed? If we don't forge Keenfire, Girdlegard will be lost. He agonized for a moment and decided that he had to put the mission first, regardless of how hard it was to leave the Mifurdanians to their fate. May the gods preserve you, he thought bleakly, lowering his head.

Boлndal laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was clear from his expression that he shared Tungdil's torment.

At length they reached the eastern battlements and discovered a small door watched over by a pair of sentries. Moments later, a bugle sounded and the sentries grabbed their spears and raced to the northern gates. The streets and marketplaces echoed with the sounds of fighting as the orcs advanced through Mifurdania, beating back the defenders.

The dwarves inspected the door. Heavy-duty chains and padlocks prevented anyone from tampering with the four steel bolts.

"Well, well, well," said a disapproving voice. "What do we have here? Five plump cannonballs on legs…I hope you weren't intending to slip out unnoticed."

The man who stepped out of the side street had an aristocratic face and a pointed beard. His flamboyant robes looked expensive. Behind him was a tall, slender woman in leather armor with a crimson head scarf over her long black hair. A plainly dressed man with gray-green eyes, dark hair, and a thin mustache brought up the rear. All three were carrying duffel bags.

"Dear me, little giants," said the man with the pointy beard, "didn't anyone tell you that this door is out of bounds?"

"Thieves, are you?" growled Bavragor, grasping his hammer in his brawny hands.

The man laughed theatrically. "Thieves! That's a good one! What funny little fellows… No, my bearded warrior, we're not even commoners, let alone common thieves! Surely you don't need two eyes to see that?"

The snarling and grunting was getting louder all the time.

"Let me through," the dark-haired woman commanded. She pushed past the bewildered dwarves and lifted her sword belt to reveal a leather pouch. Producing a number of finger-length implements, some sharpened to a point, others curved or bent at right angles, she set to work on the locks. Soon there was a click.

"I knew they were thieves," said Bavragor, pleased to be proven right.

"We're nothing of the sort, my good fellow." The man with the pointed beard gestured to his male companion. "Meet Furgas, the most accomplished prop master since"-he waved vaguely, unable to think of a suitable period of time-"since time began." He pointed to the woman. "It is my pleasure, nay, my privilege, to introduce you to the delightful Narmora, whose exquisite beauty caused the mayor of Mifurdania's roses to wither in shame. As for myself, I am-"

"The fabulous Rodario!" exclaimed Tungdil, who had suddenly placed the actor's voice.

At once the man seemed to warm to him. "An admirer of my art? Who would have thought it! And I took you for a-" He stopped short and his features hardened. "Drown me in a privy, if it isn't the racket maker, the despoiler of my scene, the saboteur of the illusion skillfully woven for the delectation of the public." His brown eyes stared accusingly at Tungdil's boots. "That's him, all right, the dwarf and his accursed footwear. His trampling and shouting ruined my act!"

There was another click as Narmora opened the final padlock and unthreaded the chain, letting it clatter to the ground. "Hurry!"

"Aren't you coming?" Furgas said anxiously.

She smiled and gave him a lingering kiss on the lips. "You go through and I'll lock up behind you. I don't want to be blamed for handing Mifurdania to the orcs. I'll climb over the parapets."

The dwarves led the way, followed by Rodario and Furgas.

It was immediately obvious that the invaders were throwing all their energy into besieging the main gates and had forgotten about the flanks of the town. The runaways were spotted by a pair of Mifurdanian soldiers, who shouted at them from the parapets to identify themselves, but the order went unheeded. Only the actor turned to wave. "Take good care of my theater for me. We'll be back when you've fought off the orcs. The very best of luck!"

"This is real life, Rodario, not one of your plays," Furgas chided, dragging him on.

The impresario seemed not to grasp the full seriousness of their plight. "All the hallmarks of drama are there, though," he said thoughtfully. "What an excellent suggestion, my dear Furgas. I shall write a new work." He put his hands on his hips and struck a heroic pose. "A fearless guardsman-that's me, of course-spots an army of orcs advancing and, in a pitched battle with, say, half a dozen of them, saves the town from certain ruin."

Just then a rope unfurled from the top of the wall and Narmora descended nimbly, hand after hand, and joined them at the base. Shouting wildly, the guards stormed along the parapet and hauled up the rope before it could be spotted by the orcs.